


Seven Years and Fifty Days

by TheThirdAmell



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adultery, Affairs, Angst, Cheating, F/M, M/M, The Bad Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:40:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28257828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheThirdAmell/pseuds/TheThirdAmell
Summary: “I’m not in love with Hawke,” Varric said.He wasn’t. Hawke was his friend. Hawke was his best friend. Hawke had been his best friend for three years, and Varric couldn’t be in love with him, because he was already in love with Bianca.He never meant for anyone to get hurt.
Relationships: Bianca Davri/Varric Tethras, Bianca/Varric Tethras, Hawke/Varric Tethras, Male Hawke/Varric Tethras
Comments: 22
Kudos: 60





	Seven Years and Fifty Days

**Seven Years and Fifty Days**

Varric never meant for Hawke to get hurt.

Hawke got hurt anyway. 

Rivaini had come back with the relic, and to no particular shock of anyone involved, the Arishok wasn’t content to simply let bygones be bygones. Varric had recommended? subtly suggested? Rivaini hide behind them. Okay, so maybe he’d screamed it, but he’d expected the fight. He’d just expected it to include all of them. He hadn’t expected the Arishok to issue a personal challenge to Hawke, and for Hawke to accept. 

“Let’s put on a show,” Hawke had grinned.

An apostate in a public duel with the Arishok. The one thing Hawke had in his advantage was that as a blood mage, hurting him was generally a bad idea. One of the many, many, many things he had in his disadvantage was that no one could know he was a blood mage. Or any kind of mage. So the fight was more or less a halberd-staff against a great axe. There was no way Hawke wouldn’t get hurt. 

It was a show, alright. A shit show. Hawke got his ass kicked. He spent half the fight running circles around the pillars in the Viscount’s Keep and getting thrown across the room just trying to deflect the Arishok’s blows. By the time the fight spilled out into the courtyard, Varric’s trigger finger was starting to itch. He was sure Hawke was using some kind of magic. He had to be using some kind of magic. Something to keep himself hasted and drain the Arishok’s stamina, but there was only so much he could do without outting himself.

The end of the fight was brutal. Hawke, impaled on the Arishok’s axe. The Arishok, impaled on Hawke’s halbert. The Arishok bleeding out faster than should have been humanly or qunarily possible. The Arishok dying. Hawke holding his insides inside with one hand and waving to the nobles with the other. Blondie, rushing him out of sight and back to the estate so he could heal him where no one could see. Varric, running faster than he ever had in his life to keep up.

Varric wasn’t worried. He wasn’t. Blondie was a great healer. Made a whole name for himself with what a great healer he was. Varric was just pacing so he had something to do. He just needed something to do. If he didn’t have something to do he’d go so stark raving mad he’d make Bartrand look like the picture of sanity. 

Daisy sat on a bench in the hall, watching Varric pace a hole in the rug. Everyone else was waiting downstairs, but it was different for Daisy like it was different for Varric. They were Hawke’s best friends. They were just his best friends. 

“You should tell him,” Daisy said. 

“Tell who what?” Varric asked, the rug rolling up under his heel at his hard aboutface. 

“Hawke,” Daisy said. “You should talk to him.” 

“I don’t think Hawke needs a story right now, Daisy.”

“Maybe he does. Maybe he needs to know how you feel.”

“What are you talking about?” Varric stopped, and the rug stopped with him. 

“You’re in love,” Daisy decided for him. “It’s all right, you know. You seem happy - not now, obviously - but when you’re with him. You seem happy. Hawke seems happy. The way that you look at each whenever the other isn’t looking, with those sad puppy dog eyes… I think you should tell him. Just in case.”

“I’m not in love with Hawke,” Varric said.

He wasn’t. Hawke was his friend. Hawke was his best friend. Hawke had been his best friend for three years. True, Hawke was a flirt, but that was just how Hawke was. He flirted with everyone and everything. Varric. Rivaini. Blondie. Coin, common sense, and currently, consciousness. Varric never flirted back. Not really. 

Maybe he told a few flattering stories about Hawke. Maybe they played a few games of Wicked Grace and maybe Varric didn’t need to take his jacket off, and maybe Hawke didn't either, but that was only fair so neither of them could cheat. And maybe Varric made a few quips about their chest hair, and maybe Hawke made a few jokes about their height difference, and maybe they got a little too drunk and maybe they weren’t really joking but he wasn’t in love with Hawke.

He couldn’t be in love with Hawke, because he was already in love with Bianca. 

“What do you mean just in case?” Varric asked.

“... Anders couldn’t heal Pol, Varric,” Merrill reminded him. “... He might not be able to heal Hawke either. I just… I think you should tell him.”

There was nothing to tell - there wasn’t - but Varric let himself into Hawke’s room anyway. Blondie looked to be finishing up. Hawke lay atop his covers. He was so segmented with bandages Blondie had practically mummified him. Feet, bandages, thighs, bandages, torso, bandages, head, bandages. A pile of poultices and potions were stacked on his nightstand, just in case Varric needed another reminder Hawke had stared death in the face for so long it was a wonder they hadn’t kissed. 

“Tell him not to do that again,” Blondie cautioned on his way out. “And make sure he stays in bed.” He paused, and with a completely unwarranted _look_ , added, “And make sure he doesn’t do anything in bed.” 

Varric had an excellent comeback and the only reason he didn’t say it was because Blondie left and not because he couldn’t actually think of one. He sat on the edge of Hawke’s bed, mindful of the way the mattress dipped and Hawke’s thigh pressed against his own. 

“.. Hey Chuckles,” Seemed a safe start. 

Varric wasn’t sure why he was surprised the blood mage had lost a lot of blood. Hawke had a ghastly pallor, and didn’t lift his arm so much as drag it. He patted the part of Varric that happened to be closest to him and it just happened to be his thigh. “Be honest, Varric, am I still pretty?”

“Drop dead gorgeous,” Varric joked. It was just a joke. “You should see the other guy.”

Hawke’s brow furrowed, a whisper of concern not at all playful making its way into his violet eyes, “... Anyone notice?”

“Notice what?” Varric hoped his smile was reassuring. He wanted it to be reassuring. 

Hawke must have been tired, because for once he didn’t get the joke. “Magic.”

“What magic?”

“Can’t let the neighbors find out…" Hawke slurred, "The scandal.” 

Hawke blinked, and the motion was so slow for a moment Varric was worried he fell asleep. Just asleep. Blondie wouldn’t have left if there was any risk those violet eyes would close and stay closed. Hawke was fine. Hawke had to be fine.

… Varric gave him a gentle shake just in case. 

“Hrn?” 

“I’m thinking of writing a book,” Varric said. 

“You’re already writing two books,” Hawke mumbled sleepily. 

“That’s what makes it the perfect time to start another. I’m thinking of calling it the Tale of the Champion. What do you think?” 

“About me?” Hawke guessed.

“You know any other Champions?”

“How’s it end?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“How’s it start?”

“I'm not sure about that either.”

“Sounds great,” Hawke joked. Another slow blink, but this time those violet eyes made a slow sweep of him when they opened. Varric pretended not to notice, “You in it?”

“I’m in all my stories,” Varric said.

“That’s good,” Hawke yawned, eyes closing again. “You’re my favorite character.”

“Chuckles,” No response. “Hawke,” Nothing. Varric leaned over him. “Garrett.”

“Not dead, Varric,” Hawke promised, making an exhausted grab for him. His fingers caught on his father’s necklace, and tugged him down so he was a forearm’s length from Hawke’s face. Hawke blinked again, and somehow his eyes managed to stay open when he realized how close they were. 

“This’d be weird if you were,” Varric said.

“What-”

Varric kissed him. It was just a kiss. It wasn’t really -... He didn’t really - … 

Hawke’s hand made a desperate climb up his necklace to the back of his neck, cleaving the two of them together. He didn’t taste like strawberries or honeysuckle or autumn or purple prose. He just tasted like mouth, but he made a _sound_. A sound Varric wanted - needed - to hear again. A hum, deep in his chest, caught somewhere between passion and surprise. 

“Varric,” Hawke mumbled against his lips.

“Shut up,” Varric kissed him again, lost to the way his jaw felt against his palm, his beard beneath his fingers, his breath against his lips, and it wasn’t just a kiss.

“Varric - you’re hurting me,” Hawke wheezed, tapping Varric’s knee where it pressed against his stomach. 

Varric pulled back from him, belatedly aware of the literal and metaphorical pressure he’d dumped on his friend. His best friend. His just friend. He cleared his throat and fixed the few strands of flaxen hair that Hawke had mussed. “In my defense, you’re already hurt.”

“Well don’t make it worse,” Hawke chuckled, clutching the edge of Varric’s jacket to keep him from going anywhere. Not that he planned to. Not that he planned anything. “Varric?”

“Yeah?”

“You know that duel with the Arishok?”

“The one that almost got you killed?”

“I changed my mind. I shouldn’t duel him.”

“Good to know.”

“... Is this going to make things weird?”

“Things are already pretty weird, Chuckles.”

“You like me anyway though, right?”

“... Yeah. Yeah, I really do.”

—

It made things a little weird. The chest of letters in his room at the Hanged Man made things a little weirder. Varric stared at the latest from Val Royeaux. He hadn’t opened it. He told himself he wouldn’t, but if Varric was anything, he was a liar. He slid his letter opener between the folds, and the slow give of the parchment separating under his hands felt somehow lurid and tawdry, but it was just a letter. 

It was nothing. It was just a combination of letters in a combination of words in a combination of sentences in a combination of paragraphs. It wasn’t actually Bianca. Her hands had been wrapped around a quill, and not around him. When he wrote back, he was only spilling ink on parchment, and not spilling himself in her. She wasn’t hurting Bogdan. Varric wasn’t hurting Hawke.

They were just letters.

—

Hawke was high maintenance. The man was constantly on the verge of being outed as a blood mage or dying to one. It wasn’t that Varric had to accompany him on every quest, it was just that Varric had to accompany him on every quest. For peace of mind. The fact that Hawke’s many missions gave Varric an excuse not to go to the Merchant’s Guilds meetings and hear about Bianca was just a nice bonus. 

The fact that Hawke cut a fine figure at the front of their little procession was another. Varric liked the way he walked. There was always something playful in it. A skip here, a spin about his halberd there, an exaggerated step or unnecessary jump. His legs weren’t half bad either. They were almost unfairly long, and Varric’s imagination did things with the thought of them wrapped around his waist. 

But it was just his imagination. He hadn’t taken anything with Hawke further than their kiss, except to share a few more. Or alright, maybe a lot more. The man had to heal, of course. Varric didn’t want to hurt him. Now that Hawke finally had healed… 

… Varric didn’t want to hurt him.

—

He’d end it with Bianca. 

The thought repeated over and over as they stumbled back towards his bed in the Hanged Man, leaving a trail of clothes in their wake. Varric’s clothes. Hawke had been so eager to get his off his arm had gotten stuck in his vest. 

“Hawke-” Varric laughed, naked from the waist up, “Just-”

“No, this is fine,” Hawke fumbled with his belt with one hand. “I can make this work.” Somehow he managed to unlatch it, trousers dropping down around his knees and tripping him up.

Varric caught him, but he was laughing too hard to kiss him. He forced Hawke’s tangled arm down, and wrenched ineffectually at his skin tight vest. “How do you even put this on?”

“I sleep in it,” Hawke maybe joked.

“You’re supposed to sleep with me,” Varric pointed out.

“I’m trying!” Hawke kicked out of his trousers, and shoved him back towards the bed with his vest still on.

The back of Varric’s knees hit the edge of his bed, and he fell hard. 

Ancestors save him, he fell so hard. 

—

“Bianca,” Varric tripped over his tongue and his heart. He rubbed at his eyes, but Bianca was still there, standing in the doorway to his room in the Hanged Man, as beautiful as the day she left him for Bogdan and the life her family wanted for her. “What are you doing here?”

“I missed you,” Bianca shrugged, shouldering past him and into his room, and Varric thanked the ancestors Hawke didn’t keep anything in it. “You haven’t written.”

“Your family-” Varric started.

“Doesn’t know I’m here,” Bianca cut him off, untying her hooded cloak and draping it over one of his chairs, “You don’t have to worry about them sending any assassins after you like last time. Sorry about that, by the way.”

“All the assassins they send are too busy falling in love with me to kill me,” Varric joked, locking the door behind her, “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“I don’t,” Bianca returned to his side to run a playful finger along the inside of his jacket, “But I do miss you.”

Hawke. Hawke. Hawke. Say something about Hawke. Say- “With every crossbolt so far?”

Bianca laughed. 

… Varric had missed her laugh. 

“You are quick,” Bianca purred, pushing his jacket off his shoulders, “But not too quick, I hope?” 

“I'm suddenly feeling pretty slow,” Varric’s hands fit as nicely on her hips as they always had.

“But not too slow,” Bianca kissed him, and Varric let her. 

—

“What do you think of this?” Varric handed Hawke the latest passage of Hard in Hightown before the ink had dried. He’d written it atop Hawke’s legs, draped over his lap in his bed, and shoved it at him immediately afterwards. 

Hawke took it, reading the passage upside down, a few droplets of ink sliding off and onto his face. “The rain stopped with a suddenness that suggested some enterprising footpad from the Coterie had climbed up to spank the clouds.” 

“Shank,” Varric corrected him, chuckling, “Shank the clouds.” 

“Really?” Hawke glanced at him, “I like spank.”

“Yeah, I know you do,” Varric gave his thigh a playful swat, “Read what I actually wrote.”

“I’m reading between the lines,” Hawke waggled his eyebrows at him. 

“Why don’t you tell me what else I didn’t write then?” Varric abandoned hope of achieving any actual feedback and massaged Hawke’s foot instead. 

“Hmm…” Hawke went back to squinting at the parchment. “I like the scene where Lady Marielle and Guardsman Donnen get together.”

“Oh yeah?” Varric raised an eyebrow at him, “How’d that go?”

“It was pretty dramatic,” Hawke said seriously, “Lady Marielle almost died.”

“Sounds like her,” Varric agreed.

“It’s not my favorite though.”

‘What is?” Varric asked.

“The one where she confesses her undying love for Guardsman Donnen.”

“When was that?”

“I think it was after he asked her to read some of his writing,” Hawke set the parchment aside, and sat up to straddle him. Ancestors preserve him, Hawke was beautiful. He grew more beautiful with every passing day. There was always some new part of him for Varric to love. There was always some new part of him for Varric to hurt.

He had to end things with Bianca. He had to stop writing stories and start writing the truth. He had to tell her they were over. That she had Bogdan and he had Hawke and they both had to move on with their lives without each other in them. Resolved to write her tonight, Varric wrapped his arms around Hawke. “Did Lady Marielle ever say what she thought of this writing?” 

“She thought it was the best thing she’d ever read,” Hawke pulled out Varric’s hair tie to thread his fingers through his hair, framing it however he seemed to like about his face, “Written by the most amazing man she’d ever met.”

“Did you read what Donnen said to her?” Varric slid his hands beneath Hawke’s tunic, dragging the pads of his fingers up his muscular chest and winning a few delightful shivers for his efforts. 

“Didn’t get that far,” Hawke mumbled. 

“He said he loved her. He said he couldn’t imagine his life without her. He said she was the best thing that ever happened to him.” 

—

Bianca was a genius. 

Varric needed her help. 

That was all it was. There was nothing wrong with Bianca helping him. He had to have someone help him research the red lyrium they’d found in the Deep Road’s thaig, for Bartrand’s sake. His brother’s mind had been poisoned, and not even Blondie could heal it. The red lyrium was their only clue to ever curing him.

Varric couldn’t do it by himself. He’d seen what the red lyrium had done to Bartrand. He’d seen what it had done to Bartrand’s servants. Ancestors, he’d even seen what it had done to Bartrand’s house. It was evil. It was pure evil, but it was lyrium, and Bianca knew how to work with lyrium. He needed her help building a safe container for it, and once she built a container for it, he needed her help researching it. 

Until Bartrand was cured, he would never be done researching it, and so he could never really be done with Bianca either.

They just-...

He just -...

It was just -...

He meant to end it.

He really did mean to end it.

He would end it. He swore he would end it. He loved Hawke. He had a life with Hawke. He had a past, and a present, and a future with Hawke. He only had one of those things with Bianca, so he’d end it. 

The next letter. 

The next visit. 

—

“So...” Hawke shuffled his hand of cards so thoughtlessly he either had the worst hand imaginable or he wasn’t paying attention. 

"So…?” 

“... I heard your Uncle Emmet is trying to arrange a marriage with one of the Helmi daughters?” Hawke asked, his voice remarkably even for someone who'd just stumbled on the possibility of an affair. It wasn't one. Not really. Not this time, at least.

“Thanks, Hawke,” Varric sighed, setting his cards down. “I’ve been trying to forget about that all week.”

“... Not love at first sight?” Hawke joked.

“Dusana Helmi is easy on the eyes,” Varric allotted, wondering how to navigate this conversation. He’d already lost one love to an arranged marriage. He didn’t plan on losing another, but it was never that simple. He couldn’t just outright refuse House Helmi. He was working on it, but he’d hoped he’d be able to handle it without Hawke ever finding out. “But she’s tried to kill me five times this year.”

“Did she try again during the date?” Hawke asked. 

“Who said we had a date?” Varric traced his eyebrow.

“You did,” Hawke tapped his own eyebrow, “... You have a tell.”

He’d have to get rid of that. Varric joked, “She waited until I paid for dinner. She is in the Merchant’s Guild, Hawke.” 

Hawke wasn’t in the Merchant’s Guild. He didn’t understand the game Varric had to play. He didn’t understand that arranged marriages were more dangerous and volitalite than qunari gaatlok. He didn’t understand that once someone got roped into one, there was no roping them out of it, no matter who they loved or how much they loved them. 

Hawke just didn’t understand. He looked as pained as when the Arishok had impaled him. “So… is the wedding on or off?”

“Off,” Varric reached across the table for Hawke’s hand, relieved the man still let him take it. “I might leave town for a while just to make sure.”

“Being the most eligible bachelor in the Merchant Guild is perilous indeed,” Hawke smiled wanly, running his thumb over the back of Varric’s hand.

‘I’m going to need more aliases,” Varric agreed with a sigh.

“... Varric Hawke?” Hawke suggested. “... Garrett Tethras?”

“... One of those might work.”

—

They never actually got married.

They never actually had the chance. 

Thanks for that, Blondie.

“Word of the slaughter spread quickly. The Champion’s name became a rallying cry. A reminder that the mighty templars could be defied. He had defended the mages against a brutal injustice and many lived to tell the tale. The Circles rose up and set the world on fire. More templars arrived at Kirkwall to restore order but we were already long gone. We vanished into the hills and circumstance eventually forced us all to leave the champion’s side.

“You still hear the stories of course. With each telling they grow. Even if at the core remains the truth. A new legend had been born. So that’s it. That’s the whole story.” Or most of it. Varric had left out the part about him and Hawke. That wasn’t for the Seekers of Truth. That wasn’t for anyone but him and Hawke. 

“Then Meredith provoked the Circle,” Cassandra hummed, the Seeker of Truth pacing circles around him in the ruins of the Hawke estate, “She was to blame.”

“Or that damned idol was. Or Anders,” Varric was leaning towards Anders. “Take your pick.”

“Even so, had the Champion not been there-”

“It might never have gone that far,” Varric agreed, but there was nowhere else Hawke could have been. It wasn’t Hawke’s fault. Hawke didn’t deserve anything the world had done to him. He didn’t deserve anything Varric had done to him. Was still doing to him. 

“I see,” Cassandra stopped in front of him. 

“So how is hearing all this going to help?” Varric asked. “You’ve already lost all the Circles. In fact, haven’t the templars rebelled as well? I thought you decided to abandon the Chantry to hunt the mages.” Considering Hawke was one, Cassandra could pry his location from Varric’s cold dead lips. 

“Not all of us desire war, Varric,” Cassandra set down the Tale of the Champion down on a dusty table, “Please, if you know where the Champion is you must tell me. He is a hero. A man that the mages would listen to. Someone who was there at the beginning. The Champion could stop this madness before it’s too late. He may be the only one who can.”

No. No, Varric knew how this would go. Hawke was a known apostate. Worse, he was a known maleficar. He had been ever since Blondie had forced him to out himself defending the mages from Meredith’s madness. They might need Hawke to end the Mage-Templar war now, but once it was over, whoever was at the top would be the first to fall. 

“I wish I could help you,” Varric shrugged.

“You still can,” Cassandra said. “You can tell your story to the Divine.”

… Well shit.

—

They were never supposed to meet. 

Hawke was investigating red lyrium for him with Carver and the Grey Wardens. Bianca was investigating red lyrium for him in Orlais. Neither of them were part of the Inquisition. Neither of them had any interest in being part of the Inquisition, but the Inquisition needed Hawke. They needed to know what Hawke knew about Corypheus, and red lyrium, and the missing Grey Wardens.

Inquisitor Lavellan was an elf. Better yet, Inquisitor Lavellan was a mage. She’d sided with the mages to end the Mage-Templar War, cast off the title of the Herald of Andraste, and was no friend to templars or the Chantry. It took him a fair amount of time to get there, but Varric believed in her, and he believed that Hawke would be safe with her, so he’d told her about him. 

Cassandra had nearly killed him for not telling her sooner, but aside from a briefly broken arm, Varric wasn’t too broken up about it. The way he saw it, if he’d told anyone about Hawke, Hawke would have been at the Conclave, and if Hawke had been at the Conclave, Hawke would be dead. So really, it didn’t matter that Varric had lied. What mattered was that he’d told the truth before it was too late.

If only he’d told the truth about everything else.

Hawke was at Skyhold when Bianca paid Varric a visit. 

A surprise visit.

Varric was surprised.

Bianca was surprised.

Hawke was surprised.

Everyone was surprised. It was surprising for everyone. It was quite possibly the worst surprise in the history of surprises, and there was no possible way Varric could talk his way out of it.

“Bianca?” Hawke said the name slowly, like he was learning how to pronounce it for the first time. Like he hadn’t heard it said or said it himself a hundred times before. 

“It’s a common name,” Bianca lied, pulling her hood down as she stepped into Varric’s room at Skyhold. She eyed Hawke, lounging on Varric’s bed and reading Varric’s writing, shirtless, and Varric, sitting at his desk and writing more of it, wearing a human-sized shirt, and… well… She’d never been bad at math. “I’ve interrupted something.”

“... maybe I have,” Hawke sat up, and set the parchment aside.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. 

“Now, what could you have interrupted?” Bianca asked sweetly, turning back to Varric. “Varric, we need to talk.”

“Bianca, now really isn’t the best time,” Ancestors, where were his clothes? Varric jumped out of his chair and grabbed his jacket, “What are you even doing here? You shouldn’t have come.”

“Why not?” Hawke asked.

“Yes, Varric, why not?” Bianca hummed.

“You know why,” Varric hissed.

“I don’t,” Hawke countered, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. 

“The Merchant’s Guild is never too happy when we’re together, but there’s a giant hole in the sky,” Bianca said easily. Too easily. Bemont’s Beard, she was doing this on purpose. “I think they have bigger things to worry about.” 

“Are you?” Hawke asked.

“Are we…?” Bianca drawled. “Dwarves? Merchants? Archers? You’ll have to be more specific.” 

“Together?” Hawke prompted. No smiles. No laughs. No jokes. 

“Bianca is married,” Varric didn’t lie. It wasn’t a lie. “To what’s his name.”

“Bogdan,” Bianca supplied, taking off her coat and draping it over his chair. Making herself at home, as usual. Hawke couldn’t not notice. “He’s in Nevarra right now, selling my machine to wealthy landowners,” She eyed Varric over, and Hawke couldn’t not notice that either. “You should stop by, before he gets back... see my new workshop.” 

Hawke exhaled hard through his nose, but the sound wasn’t a laugh. It wasn’t even close. 

“What are you doing here?” Varric demanded a second time.

“You had me worried,” Bianca shrugged. Bianca lied. Bianca was never worried. “That letter you sent me about the red lyrium was the first I’d heard from you since the Chantry explosion. If you’d died in that mess I’d have come back to Kirkwall just to dig you up and kick your ass. Or your ashes.”

“You two write a lot?” Hawke asked.

“Oh yes,” Bianca purred, “Varric is a very proficient… writer.”

Hawke stood up, and didn’t bother getting his clothes. He didn’t say anything else. He just left the room. 

Bianca watched him go. “He’s new. Is this what you do now?”

“Damnit, Bianca-!” Varric ran out after Hawke, and managed to catch up with him in the hall. There were too many people, servants and soldiers staring at them when Varric grabbed Hawke’s hand. “Hawke - wait - let me explain.”

“Let you lie,” Hawke snarled, wrenching out of his grasp. “The one story you’ll never tell? I should have known better. I thought she was dead. I thought-...” Hawke laughed, violet eyes almost blue with tears. “I thought you loved me.”

“I do love you!” Varric shouted, just to be sure Hawke heard it. Just to be sure everyone heard it. He did love Hawke. He did. He did, he did, he did. He loved him so damn much and he was a liar but it wasn’t a lie. It was the truth. It was his only truth.

“... No more stories, Varric,” Hawke left.

Varric stood out in the hall, watching him walk away. Servants and soldiers skirted around him, talking behind their hands, and Varric could already hear the gossip. The rumors. No more stories? Varric laughed a miserable laugh. There’d be no escaping the stories. He’d hear about Hawke till the end of his days, knowing that of all the stories he’d told in his life, the one that ruined him was the only one he hadn’t told.

He had to find some way to fix it. 

He tried. Ancestors preserve him, he tried, but Hawke wouldn’t speak to him, and Bianca hadn’t shown up just to spite him. She’d found out Corphyeus was getting his red lyrium from Bartrand’s Folly, the Deep Road thiag he and Hawke had explored on their expedition years ago, because someone had leaked its location. The Inquisitor sent the two of them with a task force to seal the entrance, and once it was sealed, Varric realized Bianca was the one who’d leaked it.

“We’re done,” Someone who sounded suspiciously like Varric said. 

“What?” Bianca looked like she’d misheard him. For a moment, Varric even misheard himself. 

“I said we’re done,” Varric said.

“We’re not done,” Bianca said. “We’re just - Varric - …I’m sorry, I know I screwed up, but we did fix it. It’s as right as I can make it.”

“This isn’t one of your machines!” Varric screamed at her. “You can’t just replace a part and make everything right!” 

“No but I can try, can’t I?” Bianca shot back, “Or am I supposed to wallow in my mistakes forever, kicking myself, telling stories of what I should have done?”

“Ha!” Varric snorted, “If I told stories about my own mistakes, Hawke would have known about you years ago. You’d better get home before someone misses you.”

Bianca recoiled like he’d slapped her, but at least she finally listened. At least she finally understood. At least it was finally over. “At least I have someone waiting for me!” 

Varric had someone waiting for him. He did. He had Hawke. He’d always have Hawke. It was just-... They were just-... He just had to fix it. He just had to try. He just had to make it right. He just had to tell the truth. Varric practiced a dozen different apologies on the road back to Skyhold, and wrote them all down for good measure. 

One of them had to be good enough for Hawke. Varric just had to get him to read it. Hawke would read it. Hawke read everything he wrote. Hawke loved him. Hawke had loved him for seven years. Varric couldn’t have lost his love in a day. 

… but it hadn’t been a day.

It had been seven years.

Seven years of lies.

… He’d make up for it with seven more. Hawke had to give him that, and Varric would never lie to him again. 

Skyhold was all but abandoned when their task force made it back. The Inquisitor had taken most of the army to the Western Approach to confront the Grey Wardens, and Hawke had gone with her. The quiet gave Varric the chance to work on his apology. He narrowed it down from a dozen to a half-dozen, from a half-dozen to a quarter-dozen, from a quarter-dozen to one. He wrote it and rewrote it a dozen more times, until it was the most polished thing he’d ever written in his life, and he waited.

The army came back, climbing up the switchback roads that led up the Frostback Mountains to Skyhold, in a massive procession that would take hours for everyone to make it back inside the fortress. Lavellan found him on the ramparts, waiting to recognize Hawke’s silhouette among the soldiers. 

She pulled over two chairs, and smiled the gentlest smile, and whispered the gentlest whisper. “Varric, you should sit down.”

“... Where’s Hawke?”


End file.
